


The Queen of Asgard

by MistressX



Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Drama, F/M, Fantasy, Jealousy, Kings & Queens, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:05:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1687697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressX/pseuds/MistressX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darcy was meeting her betrothed for the first time. Too bad it was on her wedding day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three Hours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sadira-Pookie](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Sadira-Pookie).



> I should really be working on my other fanfic, Just A Vacation ... but this idea and plot bunny hopped around in my head and would not let me go! Let me know what you think! Any comments or critique is appreciated. Enjoy!
> 
> This work is for a lovely, talented individual whose artwork has served as inspiration for some of my tasertricks fics and non-published scribbling. Keep up the fantastic work. :)

**Chapter One – Three Hours**

Darcy was meeting her betrothed for the first time. Too bad it was on her wedding day. 

Up until this point, she had not heard anything good about her future husband. There were countless stories of his treachery. She knew better than to believe rumors and hearsay—but what else could she do?

What she did know was a contradictory, jumbled mess. This man was a redeemed war criminal, and supposedly, teetering on the precipice of insanity. He was a master deceiver. A charlatan to the very core. And yet he bound together with his brother to defeat an army of dark elves and saved humanity. It was baffling that such an unstable man would soon be King of Asgard. Even more perplexing that his older brother turned down the crown for—of all the childish things—love. 

But regardless of his indiscretions, he was still a Prince. And for the sake of politics, it was all that really mattered. Her father was eager for diplomacy between the realms. Darcy would be recognized as a martyr. And for those more dramatic, a savior. No more tabloids splayed on page six about the “ice princess” and “her crystal heart.” This union was considered a genius political move. Her father ate it up like a voracious hound. It seemed he would whore her out to anyone, so long as he would live forever as “the man that united galaxies.”

Darcy had every right to be terrified, angry, and downright explosive. But over the past few months, she found it better to lock herself away. To argue was pointless. To cry was childish. To beg was degrading. Her voice fell on deaf ears now. Her family was so busy being busy, they did not notice her silence.

Her father was campaigning across the states, boasting and bragging about her upcoming nuptials. She stared through him like a ghost on their plasma screen television. He gripped the podium and smiled so wide his lips curled under his gums. His laughter was exaggerated, pretentious, and downright ridiculous. 

Her mother was no better. She was more concerned with planning perfection. Darcy did not participate, which was for the best anyway. Mom even went so far as to import precious items via the Bifröst like an intergalactic FedEx. Darcy felt like who they were died months ago—it made her sick.

Darcy had thought a shower would be as refreshing as always, but the water pelted her body like hail. Once she ended the storm, she padded across the marble bathroom tiles. Her feet transitioned to cherry hardwood and again to the cream oriental carpet. She curled her toes over the soft, plush fabric and exhaled. Soon, these simple little comforts would only be memories. 

As she traipsed around the suite, one of those Bifröst packages caught her eye. It was centered perfectly on the California King bed. The box was wrapped with swirls of sheer gold fabric and an ostentatious green ribbon. 

These were his favorite colors. She knew from scanning the dossiers. If she had no choice in marrying a God, the least she could do was make the best of a horrific situation. Darcy knew she was rationalizing, but it was the only sane coping mechanism she had left. 

Darcy hovered on a small envelope, which was nestled in an oversized bow. In bold calligraphy, was her new title:

**Her royal Majesty, Queen Darcy Lewis of Asgard**

“Because that’s not intimidating at all,” Darcy said and blew a gust of held air from her mouth.

She knew it was from him. She had received a few correspondence letters from him before. They were nice, she supposed. She never wanted to respond. It would be less real. But her mother was relentless on immediate responses. So she wrote short, perfunctory, and utterly pointless words to appease her mother.

Darcy tore her manicured nail across the envelope and dug out the letter within. It was written on sparkling gold parchment, with that same flawless calligraphy. 

_Lady Darcy,_  
 _Today, you will be first my wife and second my Queen. I hope this gift brings you reassurance of my undying devotion._  
 _Sincerely,_  
 _His Lordship, Prince Loki Laufeyson of Asgard_

Darcy rubbed her fingers across his name and sighed. His letters never sounded like the ramblings of a homicidal lunatic. Nor did they fit with the intergalactic terrorism he inflicted on Germany or New York City. But anyone could hide behind paper.

It had also occurred to her that he may have never written these letters. For all she knew it may have been composed with the practiced hands of a scribe. Darcy doubted Prince Loki took the time or effort to write her this … love letter? Could she even call it that? Surely, he had more to worry about than her return of affection.

She turned the letter over and let it twirl on the floor. She flopped, face forward, onto the bed and surrounded herself with linens. She screamed into the sheets and pounded her fists. Her legs flailed and thumped against the mattress. 

In three short hours, Darcy would be the Queen of Asgard. This was the last time she would be here. And she had no time to reminisce—which was made more obvious by quick knocks on the French doors. Her tantrum would have to wait.

“Come in,” She called into the sheets.

The doors to her suite opened and closed with two distinct clacks. She braced for her mother’s high-pitched soprano and subsequent whirlwind through the walk-through closet. She readied for her sister Priscilla squawking about ‘all the ways she could bring that Prince to his knees.' When the squabble was not immediate, Darcy turned her head and flinched.

It was the Prince. 

She had never seen Loki before, but she immediately knew it was him. His posture commanded attention and reverence. His outfit was most certainly otherworldly, like a costume—leather, gold, and shrouded in an extravagant green cloak. 

But all that was nothing compared to his appearance. She never expected him to be attractive. She had always imagined him monstrous, like the rumors. His sharp, sculpted face and dark curls were unexpected. And those green eyes were hypnotic. 

She scrambled to a more suitable, lady-like position on the bed and brushed stray hairs away from her face. One strand stuck to her lashes and she furiously blew air from her pursed lips to release it. She heard his small, baritone laugh and her spine bristled with electricity.

 _What is he doing here?_ Darcy thought and fidgeted with the tie of her bathrobe. 

“I apologize for startling you, Lady Darcy,” Loki said and bowed.

Darcy could only stare. This was a dream. She was sleeping. She had to be. This man was someone else. This man bent before her was not Prince Loki of Asgard. It could not be the same man responsible for thousands of civilian casualties. Loki of Asgard was supposed to be barbaric and psychotic. He was not chivalrous. Or apologetic. Or handsome. 

He cleared his throat but remained bowed forward. Darcy realized her error and leapt from the bed into a deep, pitiful curtsey. She had only skimmed the sixteen texts on Asgardian tradition and royal customs. Upon reading wedding night rituals, she closed the book hard and decided she was done. She would take her chances on knowing little to nothing. Ignorance was easier. 

And now it was painfully obvious that she did not know much. 

“Sorry,” Darcy winced and scrunched her face.

He straightened and smiled, “Do not let it trouble you.”

The inevitable silence came. And while Loki appeared content, Darcy struggled for words. She clambered for something to fill the empty space.

“Um, do you want to sit down?” Darcy motioned to the bed with her open hand.

Loki squinted and frowned. Darcy chided herself for not memorizing those damn books. She looked like a complete ass. She was a walking, talking, breathing faux pas. How was he, let alone all of Asgard, going to respect some mortal too good enough to actually acknowledge their culture?

He bent down and scooped the letter from the floor. He cranked his neck up and glared at her with intense green eyes.

“I take this to mean you do not like my gift,” The letter crinkled in his closing fist.

 _Oh, shit._ Her thoughts blared like a trumpet. _He’s so pissed. He’s going to lose it._

What could she say? She already squeaked out a sorry. She didn’t think another would be sufficient. And there was no way this subject was getting changed. His face remained stoic but those eyes seared holes straight through her body.

She really tried to read those texts but it was hopeless. They served better purpose collecting dust on her desk. Darcy would just have to flounder through this misunderstanding with what little etiquette she remembered from those gargantuan texts.

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” She wavered and said, “I shouldn’t have dropped that on the floor. It was careless. Please forgive me.”

The creases of his mouth drooped into a frown again. He stood and the crumpled letter fell from his open hand. His eyes were no longer clouded with anger, but softer and suddenly despondent.

“Did you dispose of all my letters this way?”

She would have, honestly, if her mother and Priscilla hadn’t fawned over them first. But he didn’t need to know any of that.

“My mother and sister put them into a scrapbook for … remembrance.” Darcy said.

“How thoughtful of them,” Loki responded and perched on the ivory bedframe. “It is a shame you do not share in their acceptance of me.”

Darcy was unprepared for her erratic heart, thumping wild and fast against her ribcage—the noise pounded and reverberated hard in her throat. She was defenseless against the disappointment and … was that _sadness_ in his voice?

The God of Mischief and Lies. Soon to be King of Asgard. Sad. Over a mortal woman? It was an impossible concept to grasp. She was of the same race he deemed to be beneath him, nothing more than a pissant craving subjugation. And now he wanted her acceptance?

“Did you really mean everything you wrote?” Darcy steadied her voice and sat on the bed.

“Yes,” He said and turned to watch her, “If you believe nothing else, believe that I will honor you above all others.”

Darcy wanted to trust him. That he would treat her as his equal, but she knew better. In the end, she was nothing more than a political pawn. It was easier to just nod her head and acquiesce.

“Now,” Loki rotated and slithered across the linen like a serpent. “I do not wish you to hear the remainder of my vows prematurely. But I would ask of you a small favor.”

“Sure,” She said. He reached behind them and dragged something across the bed. On impulse, Darcy stiffened and squeezed her bare legs together. Oh, she was so not ready for—

“I would like to witness this,” He smirked and presented her with the same superfluous box from before.

“Oh,” Darcy exhaled and lost the heat in her cheeks. She could not believe half a second ago she had thought he would try something wicked. But in a few hours, he would have _the right to do with her as he pleased_ … funny how those were the few words that stuck like glue in her mind from those books.

She grasped his gift and stripped away the decorations. The white paper tore beneath her hurried fingertips and revealed a large wooden box. Darcy released the golden latches and lifted the cover.

Her breath was gone. She had lost it in the contents of the box. The glistening diamonds and emeralds assaulted her eyes first, second only to brilliant gold leaves. It was a gorgeous collar necklace—most certainly fit for a Queen. She was afraid to touch it. Afraid that her simple mortal fingers would mar it.

“Loki,” She said and closed the box, “This is beautiful, but I can’t—”

“My mother wore these jewels on the eve of her wedding,” He said and implored her with glassy, green eyes. “It would honor her if you did the same.”

No matter the person, no matter the circumstance, this was beyond Darcy not wanting a gift from her prospective husband. This was a matter of respecting the late Queen and honoring her legacy. She could not bring herself to utter another negative remark.

The prince pushed her hair to one side and she braced for the frost from his touch (yet another tidbit she recalled that he was not technically Asgardian, but a creature of ice) but it never came. The brush of his fingertips was rather electric and caused the fine hairs on her neck to stand alert. Darcy chided her heart for trashing about like a caged animal. She was not supposed to feel like this about a stranger—he was not supposed to make her feel _good_.

His fingers lingered on her for a beat and then her neck was heavy from the weight of the necklace. She marveled at his magic and smiled.

“Nice trick,” She said and traced her neckline, careful not to touch the bejeweled collar.

“Do you wish to see your reflection?” Loki said and motioned to the standing mirror.

“Nah,” Darcy fiddled with the tie of her bathrobe. “I guess I want to be surprised.”

The truth was if she saw how elaborate and gorgeous the necklace was against her plain, pale neck she would take it off. He must have sensed her unease for his hands grasped her restless fingers and locked them together.

Darcy regarded him and let herself think that maybe, just maybe, Prince Loki of Asgard was not an entirely heartless monster. Maybe there was some kindness in him.

“Now that,” Loki said and raised her hand to his lips. “I can do.”

Before her heart could register his closeness and react, the Prince dissipated and left her hand suspended in midair. Darcy blinked and registered his absence. She supposed this was just one of Loki’s many oddities.

This would most certainly be an adventurous marriage, but more realistically a true plunge into the unknown. And like it or not, Darcy had to be ready for anything.


	2. Pep Talk

**Chapter Two – Pep Talk**

* * *

 

Anything, at the moment, was her older sister Priscilla.

The doors crashed against Darcy’s lavender bedroom walls. The resulting indentations and scratches caused a small, bubbling anger to rise in her stomach. At times, Priscilla never seemed to care for anything or anyone but herself.

Her sister’s self-devotion showed—most ungracefully—as she clopped across Darcy’s carpet. Priscilla tossed her a white garment bag. It landed, soundlessly, across Darcy’s lap. Priscilla shifted and placed a manicured hand on her hip.

“Mother says you need to try this on,” She sighed and scrutinized her other hand.

“Hello to you too, Cissy,” Darcy exhaled. She regarded the bag and embossed, golden script. She ran a finger over each curved loop on the name. “Georgianna’s Closet.”

“Couture lingerie,” She rolled her pale blue eyes to the ceiling. “It’s white, with some gold fringe. Corset, thong, garter, tights. The works.”

“Wow,” Darcy murmured. Her mother certainly wanted her to be a well-decorated present.

Darcy gave a non-committal answer on purpose. There was no point in stirring any intrigue. She would never tell Priscilla what she was really thinking—would her husband actually like this lingerie? Or would he be more fascinated with what lay underneath it?

“You don’t have to bother prancing around in it for me. I know just what to tell Moth—Oh!” Priscilla grabbed Darcy’s necklace.

Darcy coughed and stretched her neck to accommodate her sister’s intrusion. She was so close, hints of vanilla and peach wafted under Darcy’s nose. She remembered that scent.

Darcy had given Priscilla a small perfume bottle for her sixteenth birthday. It wasn’t an expensive name brand. It wasn’t anything special. It was just a little trinket. It was something that she picked up at the corner store on her walk home from school. After all these years, Priscilla still had it. Darcy thought she had thrown it out, but she wore it today. The thought made Darcy’s heart contact and ache. Her eyes watered.

“This was the Queen’s.” Darcy closed her eyes, holding back any impending tears. “She wore it on her wedding day.”

“You are so lucky!” Priscilla whined and released her vice grasp. “Do you know what vile Robert gave me for our anniversary?”

Darcy could only guess, by Priscilla’s standards, that it was tacky. She entertained her sister and sighed. “What did he do, Cissy?”

“He pulled out that tasteless blue box in Todd’s Downtown. Inside were these plain, platinum earrings. I wanted to die, Darcy. It was just awful.” Priscilla huffed.

Darcy drummed her fingers on the bed. She knew that those plain, platinum earrings were at least $350. Cissy was heartless to her boyfriends. Darcy pitied Robert. No man would ever be good enough for Priscilla. He would always, eventually, make some disastrous faux pas and leave her feeling wronged.

“You’ve never even met the Prince,” Priscilla sighed. “And he’s already giving you royal jewels! Belonging to his mother no less.”

Darcy cleared her throat. “I’m sure you would look much better in this necklace than me, Cissy.”

Darcy had more than a few serious doubts about being Queen. Her late majesty seemed like a kind and fair woman. Darcy liked to think Queen Frigga would have eased her transition. She would have been the perfect mentor. But Darcy had nothing now. She had no one. She would be alone.

Priscilla pressed her painted, red lips into a hard line. She spoke through clenched teeth. “A Queen is calm, confident, and to be at the side of her King always. Not an insecure mess, Darce.”

Darcy scrunched her nose. That sounded familiar. She knew those words from somewhere.

Priscilla capitalized on her confusion. She pointed to the dusty, untouched books on Darcy’s desk. “The Duties of a Queen. Volume 5. Chapter Eight. Or was it Nine?”

“Impressive, Cissy.” Darcy whistled. “Wish I had your memory. It would really save my ass.”

“And so you shall, your soon-to-be highness,” Priscilla gave a quick, perfunctory curtesy and stuck her tongue out.

Darcy’s heart leapt. Was it true? Would she at least have her sister there?

“Mother insists I stay with you for a little—quiz you, keep you sharp—to make sure you will be an ideal Queen. The Asgardian court was amenable to the idea too.”

Darcy pulled Priscilla into a tight hug. Thank goodness. She would have some sense of normalcy amongst the chaos. She would have someone to keep her sane. If she had to choose, Darcy would not have selected Priscilla, but she was still her sister. She was her family. A connection to her old life.

“Darcy!” Priscilla squawked. “Don’t wrinkle my dress! And don’t you dare snivel all over it.”

Darcy disengaged and looked her over. Priscilla wore a tight, tan cocktail dress with black lace. Pearls accented her long, shapely neck and peeked from her earlobes. It was quite modest compared to her usual cleavage-busting wardrobe.

Darcy couldn’t help but laugh. “Are you really wearing this on the Bifröst?”

“Yes,” She bristled and smoothed her dress. “It is subtle, yet elegant. Don’t worry your majesty. I won’t draw any attention away from you.” She honked her breasts and giggled.

Darcy snorted. “I would rather you did—and you just might. Do you see how fast packages come and go on there? Your clothes will rip right off—and there you will stand, bare-assed for all of Asgard!”

“Bitch,” Priscilla swatted Darcy with a decorative pillow. She smirked. “I believe you will be the only one bare-assed tonight.”

Oh, right. Darcy nearly forgot about that part of the arrangement. According to the text, the King would do with her as he pleased. He would have free reign over her body. While it was terrifying, backwards, and downright subservient … Darcy could not help but be the tiniest bit intrigued. How closely were those rules followed?

“Hey,” Priscilla grabbed her wrist, breaking Darcy out of her trance. “You actually know how to get a guy off, right?”

“What?” Darcy’s cheeks flashed with heat. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Priscilla crawled onto the bed and stared her down. Her eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “Tell me you at least know about _The Heartbeat of America_. That one drove Robert insane.”

“Are you kidding me?” Darcy pressed herself against the headboard. “I don’t want to know about your sex life with Robert.”

“Alright, alright” Priscilla grumbled. “Robert and I were pretty vanilla. Antonio was more adventurous. He loved to fuck my ass and grab my—”

“Cissy! Stop. I don’t need to hear anymore.” Darcy put her hands up. “Why are you telling me this?”

The slap startled Darcy. She wasn’t expecting it.

Darcy’s face now exploded with a stinging fire. She turned her head down, so her brown tendrils ran like rivulets down her face. Darcy bit her lip and focused on a new pain. She didn’t want to cry. She wouldn’t cry.

“Cut the shit, Darce.” Priscilla fisted her hands in the linen. “Our whole fucking planet is counting on you. This isn’t just something you can wing as you go. You have to follow the rules.”

Darcy watched Priscilla through strands of her hair. Priscilla was shivering. Her mascara ran down her red cheeks. She was visibly upset. Beside herself even.

“This is not a game,” Priscilla unclenched the sheets and took Darcy by the shoulders. “You have to keep him satisfied. If you don’t, you’ll be exiled. Or executed.”

Darcy lifted her head at that. Her stomach twisted. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Priscilla rose from the bed and traipsed to Darcy’s writing desk. Without any hesitation, she selected the fourth book from a tall stack and returned to her spot. Priscilla flipped through pages, diagrams and hierarchical flowcharts, until her finger landed on the second paragraph on page 364.

“Read it,” She ordered.

Darcy fished around in the pocket of her bathrobe. She retrieved her quirky, black-rimmed glasses—the ones that made her mother cringe—and slipped them on. She leaned closer to her sister and read.

_The noble wife is to be a picture of enchantment and desire at all times. She must be well-versed in the knowledge of her husband. If she is found displeasing to the King, this will be the cause of her demise. Punishment is seen fit by his majesty and may extend to the noble wife’s family and home. If his displeasure is great, his majesty may elect exile or execution of the noble wife._

Darcy clasped her chest. “Exile or execution.”

“Right,” Priscilla slammed the book shut. “It’s archaic, but we have to go along with it. So please, tell me you know what you’re doing.”

Darcy had boyfriends in high school. And yes they fooled around, but it never went past that point. In college, she was focused on her studies. She didn’t have time for a relationship, nor did she feel the need to seek one out. She went on a handful of dates after that, but it always made her sick how after the second or third time seeing a guy there was always a certain expectation … And she had no tolerance for men that had the test-drive mentality.

Deep down, she knew her sister was speaking out of fear and desperation. But really, this was ridiculous. It was almost unfathomable that so much could be riding on, of all things, the status of her hymen. She could not even comprehend what other preposterous things would await her in those books. Priscilla didn’t have time to sugar-coat anything. In her own authoritarian—and brash—way, her sister was only trying to help.

Darcy wasn’t stupid. She knew the mechanics of sex. She had watched porn before and read enough Cosmo to get the gist. And she definitely didn’t need any more advice from Priscilla. It was time to shut this conversation down.

“Yeah, I know how to—” Darcy searched for the right word. “ _Satisfy_ a man.”

Priscilla released a held breath. She wiped and patted her stained cheeks with a monogramed handkerchief. “Oh, thank God. Any competition will be a little less fierce.”

Darcy frowned. What was that supposed to mean?

“Did you know you’ll have handmaidens? Like twelve?” Priscilla changed the subject, flitting around the bedroom. She did not pause for breath, but prattled on about everything and nothing. It was as if their previous conversation never happened.

And honestly, that was for the best. Darcy could handle nothing and nonsense.

* * *

 

The trip on the Bifröst was not as jarring as Darcy had expected. She was catapulted through red and purple swirls, twinkling stars, and then complete darkness. She didn’t have time to think, or move, or breathe for she was propelling into a bright, expanding light. When the light became blinding, she blinked—for only a moment—and then found herself upright.

Darcy stood—unscathed but most certainly winded—on a receiving platform inside a gigantic golden globe. She took a few deep breaths and watched her parents bolt forward, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. They fawned over everything. They quickly greeted a dark-skinned man—whom Darcy presumed was only a statue on account of his stillness—decked in a similarly golden shade. His response back to them was a firm nod. And for Darcy, a confirmation that he was indeed alive.

Priscilla nudged her ribs softly. “That’s Heimdall. All-seeing gate keeper of the realms. So don’t get too freaky with hubby, because he might be watching and rubbing one out.”

“Cissy!” Darcy hissed and observed Heimdall furrow his brows.

It was clear Heimdall was already not fond of Priscilla. He did not speak, but his eyes narrowed and seemed focused on snapping her in half. Darcy made a silent prayer that any interaction between them, from this point forward, would be kept to a bare minimum.

“What?” Priscilla sauntered ahead and waved at the armored man, but he gave her no acknowledgement.

Priscilla’s face soured and she clacked around the pristine floor. She whistled, perhaps admiring the architecture, but also made her high-pitched tones echo continuously in the chamber. The sound was worse than a screeching tea-kettle. She was being annoying on purpose.

It was times like these that people found it difficult to believe Darcy was the younger sister.

Darcy winced and trod softly toward him. “Hello. Sorry about Priscilla. We’ll be out of your way soon, Heimdall.”

His amber eyes flashed to her. “Hello, Lady Darcy. You are no bother to me. And as for your sister, I have heard and seen enough trickery to last a thousand lifetimes. She is but a momentary nuisance.”

Darcy’s curiosity peaked at his words. It was not something she could just ignore. What exactly did he mean by seeing and hearing enough trickery?

“While that may be true, it doesn’t mean you should have to put up with any more trickery.”

A flicker of emotion passed his features. His hands grasped tighter around the hilt of his sword. His whisper was almost imperceptible. “Do I have your word on that, Lady Darcy?”

Her spine stiffened. They weren’t talking pleasantries anymore. There seemed to be an unspoken, deeper meaning to his words. And she wasn’t going to answer his question directly. If she did, Darcy feared it would be binding and permanent. Darcy knew her next words would be important. She made an error in judgment to just speak her mind. It seemed that was a luxury she couldn’t afford anymore. She would have to be careful, more practiced with her linguistics.

“Come on, Darce,” Priscilla called, motioning for her at an open doorway. Amidst the navy skyline, a dazzling rainbow bridge awaited. “You don’t have time to flirt with the help!”

Darcy pressed her lips together, caging a rather volatile comeback, and sighed. “Try not to take anything Priscilla says to heart, Heimdall. She’s only having some fun.”

His face hardened. “And the same to you, Lady Darcy. You should join your family. Try to enjoy your last Midgardian evening.”

Darcy scrunched her eyebrows together. She had left Earth behind the moment she stepped on the Bifröst. She was never going back home—Asgard would be her new home. Her kingdom. Her last moments on Midgard had already passed.

As Darcy approached Priscilla, she noted at least a dozen women forming a half-circle around their path. They smiled and bowed low, except for one older woman. She strode forward, her gray robes gently swirling with each movement. The woman stopped before Darcy, and took her hands into her own.

“Lady Darcy. We are so pleased to receive you and your family. I am Eir, your handmaiden and first attendant.”

Priscilla gave Darcy a look which spoke for itself—for it was full of mockery. Her eyes seemed to dance and say, ‘See Darcy? See? I told you so!’

“Oh, hi,” Darcy half-smiled and shook her hand vigorously. “Nice to meet you, and everyone else of course.”

“My Lady,” Eir released her hands gently and gestured beyond the row of maidens to the expansive golden palace. “Welcome to your new home.”

* * *

 

Darcy wasn’t nervous when the handmaidens undressed her or prepared her bath. She didn’t fidget when the silken fabric of her wedding gown slid over her skin. She barely blinked as Priscilla applied her make-up with precision and finesse. She didn’t even trip over her train. She didn’t shiver as her father, beaming and all teeth, passed her hand into Loki’s.

She had to get nervous at the worst possible time. The time when she had to speak.

She didn’t know what to call the man between them. She knew nothing of Asgardian religion, but she assumed he was a holy man for he led their vows. And it was that man whom was staring at her. His gaze was not fierce, but hesitant. It was as if he was expecting her to say something. A fine sheen of sweat collected on his forehead. He was waiting for a response.

And she didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t been paying attention. She was so lost in her thoughts—in some dream-like trance—that she must have been just going through the motions.

Darcy swallowed hard and tasted bile. “I’m sorry. What?”

Loki chuckled and squeezed her hands. He whispered. “Do you profess your love to me, my Lady?”

She knew the correct answer. It would be some equivalent of ‘Yes, my Lord. I profess my love to you and no other man.’

Darcy’s hands shook. Her voice was low, wavering. “I barely know you.”

It was an honest answer, but it was very wrong. She didn’t need Priscilla’s imperceptible hissing or sharp gasp from the holy man for confirmation. Darcy only needed to look at Loki.

“What am I to make of that response?” His green eyes were stormy. His grip on her tightened. “That you refuse me? That your heart belongs to another?”

His fingernails pinched the delicate skin beneath her palms. He was teetering again, close to losing control. Darcy bit her lip. She was before the altar, before the councilmen of Asgard, before warriors and civilians alike—and she couldn’t bring herself to lie.

But Darcy had to be careful with the truth. She had to weave her words with sensitivity.

“No, my Lord. I won’t refuse you.” Darcy drew closer to him, though her mind screamed in protest. She turned her eyes down. “And don’t worry. There isn’t anyone else.”

“Then why the hesitation?” His voice softened. His thumbs no longer digging her flesh, but making small circles on her hands.

Darcy took a deep breath. She would put her faith in his tone and gentle caresses.

“I want to love you, my Lord.” Darcy intertwined their fingers, clenching them closed to still the tremor in her hands. She glanced up at him. “But I would also like to know you. Will you honor me with that choice?”

Loki released her hands. His eyebrows knit together. “Are you requesting courtship?”

Darcy could have leapt for joy. Did this actually work? Did she find a loophole?

“Yes,” Darcy said. “That is my wish.”

Loki turned from her to face his kingdom. A buzzing swarm of hushed voices and docile tones were silenced with the rise of his hands. He turned back to Darcy, opening his mouth as if to say something, but thought better of it. His lips snapped shut.

“My fellow Asgardians,” Loki’s voice boomed throughout the grand hall. “The Lady Darcy Lewis of Midgard wishes to forfeit my selection as your future Queen.”

Darcy’s stomach twisted into a hard knot. She never said that. She said she would never refuse him. She never said she wouldn’t marry him. That she wouldn’t be his Queen. That she would refuse Asgard.

“The Lady Darcy has shown great generosity and devotion to not only Asgard, but all the nine realms. She has requested to participate in an ancient tradition: a game of courtship.”

There were trickles of cheers and applause, but the excitement within the hall rose in waves and washed over Darcy. The people were ecstatic, but she couldn’t shake an overwhelming feeling of dread. What had she done?

“The game will commence in three days,” Loki raised his hands again, but with a fervor to match the growing enthusiasm of his people. “And soon my Asgard, you will have a Queen.”

Long fingernails bit into her upper arm. Priscilla’s heated words scorched her ear. “Are you fucking crazy? Do you realize what you’ve done?”

Darcy didn’t have the slightest idea, but knew that no good would come from playing games—courtship or otherwise—with Prince Loki.


End file.
